


Private Disgrace

by Pornosec



Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst and Porn, Bottom Breakdown, Dom/sub, Extremely Dubious Consent, Fluids, Hate Sex, M/M, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Punishment, Rimming, Sadism, Sexual Coercion, Size Kink, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Switch Starscream, Top Megatron, Valve Play (Transformers), Verbal Humiliation, Versatile Starscream
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:26:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27624709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pornosec/pseuds/Pornosec
Summary: Starscream, frustrated with his treatment at Megatron's hands, offers Breakdown a tit-for-tat deal: play along with my whims, and I'll ensure Megatron doesn't hurt you (too much). In the process, Starscream discovers a new, unsettling, and hungry side of himself.
Relationships: Breakdown/Starscream (Transformers), Megatron/Starscream (Transformers), Megatron/Starscream/Breakdown
Comments: 9
Kudos: 35





	1. Strategic Negotiations

**Author's Note:**

> Tags will be updated as new chapters are posted.

“—if I may speak freely, Lord Megatron—”

His voice was weak still, and cracked. For long cycles Megatron was silent, but for the poisonous hum of his engine, and Starscream lay damp and shaking. Wondering if he’d been heard at all.

“Speak, then,” growled Megatron, unmoving, and the whole berth rumbled with the force of it. “Or have I shaken your voicebox loose, Starscream?”

Starscream shifted. His port clicked open, still numb from overload; a rush of congealed lubricant and transfluid, kept warm by his engine, trickled down his thigh. The air was thick, as if after a lightning storm, and smelled cloyingly of Dark Energon.

With a choked whine in his voice he spoke at last. “Breakdown is the very  _ anchor _ of our battle lines—”

They’d often discussed strategy in the berth. In the first volleys of the war, when they’d been nearly equals, he’d seduced Megatron with stolen intelligence.

Even now Megatron sometimes listened.

The ship’s vents engaged, and chill dry air rushed over Starscream’s fresh cuts. His voice was almost lost beneath the hiss. “Master, the historical record states Breakdown dealt the final blow to—”

“Spare me the  _ historical record, _ Starscream.”

He’d gone too far. Starscream’s cables contracted, his wings tensing (as if flight would save him). He drew back, with a scrape of metal on metal, his wings flattening against the bunk’s wall.

“Do you suppose I wasn’t there?” rumbled Megatron, and his smile curdled Starscream’s innermost Energon. “I know his record, as I know  _ all _ of your records.” His smile widened, repressively. “Breakdown is a thug. There is a time and a place for thuggery, Starscream—”

His fist closed on Starscream’s calf, tightly enough to leave dents. Beneath the thin plating, fiber optics screamed, pain hurtling up Starscream’s leg; a tiny humiliated whimper escaped him.

So often he came almost willingly to Megatron’s berth, as if he’d learned nothing. As if they’d be equals again (or nearly so).

As if he’d come out on top.

His port tingled, the deep soreness almost soothing. Later he’d curse and spit and scheme, scrubbing Megatron’s lazy touch and choking scent away. Later—always  _ later— _

But in the moment he muttered, “of course, Master. Undoubtedly.”

“—but no time nor place for a one-eyed artilleryman.” Megatron chuckled, his optics shuttering. “If Knock Out sees no value in replacing Breakdown’s optic, I defer to his medical expertise—”

Starscream muted his voicebox. Knock Out had insisted; Breakdown had refused, with a voice like a thunderstorm, a voice half the ship had heard.  _ I blew it, Knock Out. Don’t waste your time on me. And I can shoot just fine with one eye— _

Though he couldn’t, and half the ship knew that, too.

“—and one of these days I shall ask Knock Out how many tons of salvage his  _ partner _ would make.”

The discussion was settled. Starscream curled into himself, wing joints twitching spasmodically. Bit by bit, Megatron’s grip loosened, and his motor’s rumble faded into the steady thrum of cooling fans.

Still Starscream waited until Megatron rolled over, with a tremendous hydraulic creak, before stumbling from the berth.

“Bots do this to you?” Breakdown’s fingers, thick as Megatron’s, settled easily into the dents on Starscream’s calf.

Stiffly Starscream nodded. 

He smelled almost unnaturally clean, he knew—a disgrace and a scandal, to limp into the medbay still reeking of Megatron. He’d flushed his still-aching port until the solvent ran clear, wincing at the satisfied tingle of his neural net. In the privacy of the officers’ washracks he’d damned his programming.

As if he’d  _ won. _ As if his overload had sated him.

So in the air between them he tasted diesel fumes, warm copper, and stingingly sharp polish: cherry-red paint flecks marred Breakdown’s seams, and smooches of polish gleamed on his immense forearms. He’d been maintaining Knock Out not five cycles before.

Starscream’s lip curled.

“Just smooth it out. I trust you’ll keep this discreet.”

Breakdown’s yellow eye widened for a split second. Pathetic and vacant-looking without its mate. “Yessir. You can count on me, Commander.”

_ You can count on me, Commander. _

Knock Out and Breakdown had been Starscream’s find, and Breakdown knew it.

_ I suggest that Megatron never know of this rescue. You do want him to think you defeated the puny humans and escaped on your own, don’t you? _

It was whispered around the  _ Nemesis, _ on encrypted comms lines: Breakdown hadn’t been the same in the weeks since the rescue.

The anesthetic had numbed his neural net; as if concussed or drunk he’d staggered from MECH’s warehouse, his empty eye socket’s wires winking in the night. Starscream had been stunned. Disgusted.

He’d been cocky; now he moved almost apologetically.

Rumor held that MECH had pulled his plating back, and for all his brute strength, he’d taken it. He’d rolled over like a pleasure drone.

“Starscream,  _ Starscream. _ ”

Megatron’s fingers bit deep into Starscream’s flanks; Starscream’s fiber optics flickered with dull pain.

“What am I to  _ do _ with you, Starscream?”

Contradictory signals clogged his voicebox. A high senseless whimper escaped him. “Master—”

Megatron lifted him, almost gently, and let him sink. At the same instant Megatron’s hips bucked upward, his cable thrusting hot and slick into Starscream’s port.

Impossible to think. Bit by bit he was stretched open, with the squelch of lubricant reverberating in his own audials. He smelled hot  _ sentio metallico, _ tasted oral lubricant welling up (yet somehow his mouth still felt so parched).

“One would think you’d welcome the big oaf’s disgrace—to distract the crew’s attention from your own failures—”

Breakdown. They had been discussing Breakdown.

Beneath him Megatron rose and fell, rose and fell. His claws scraped lightly over Starscream’s armor; Starscream thought for a muddy instant he’d fry his neural net from the intensity of it, the sickly glow of sensation.

Like a pleasure drone Megatron fragged him. Megatron, who’d been so strident about dignity in the berth.  _ No mech can be truly free in the public sphere and a cringing slave in private. _

Like a toy, scarcely worth notice.

Starscream’s hydraulics pulsed with rage. Coolant flooded beneath his faceplate. And yet all that escaped his choked voicebox was a petulant “Master, I—”

His engine must, he felt, be steaming. His nodes burned, almost numb; yet still his lubricant flowed, dripping free with every thrust, and still the stifling heat spread through him. Starscream’s cable brushed, fully pressurized, against its plate. With every thrust it ached a little more, straining forward against hot iron.

And yet beneath him Megatron sprawled lazy as a tyrant, and his voice scarcely rose at all. “Do I not satisfy you, Starscream? You’re preoccupied.”

(No.)

“Thinking perhaps of Breakdown’s ugly cable.”

(No.)

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you, Starscream?” Megatron’s voice roughened, his motor picking up speed. His fingers dug deep; his cable thrust deeper. “It’s not the size that matters. It’s what you do with it.”

Starscream’s overload hit him like a thunderclap. He cried out, clenching his jaw, as if to dampen it. As if to keep some dignity.

In the washracks he shivered, watching Megatron’s transfluid leak unhurriedly from his port. He’d bled a little, streaks of bright-blue Energon swirling in the murky purple; in the moment he’d not felt it.

So eager his body seemed to betray him. Starscream shuddered, probing his port cautiously. His systems scan blinked on his HUD:  _ Minor abrasive damage. Silicone integrity at 94%. _

His finger slipped easily inside. He’d been well-loosened, and his port tingled sweetly. In his neural net he could feel still the echoes of his overload.

“ _ Dear _ Megatron,” he rasped, trying not to hear the quaver in his voice. “I so look forward to the day our positions are reversed—”

A gush of transfluid dislodged, flowing in a warm rush over his finger. Involuntarily he shivered. With his free hand he pulled back his cable’s plating, dreading the worst. His cable slumped out, half-pressurized. His own silvery transfluid coated its ridges, warm and tacky now, and dribbled over his plating. He’d not felt himself release either.

His cable was oddly heavy in his hand, swollen and sensitive. Gingerly he held it, directing the stream of solvent over its ridges and wincing at the burn on the nodes.

_ Thinking perhaps of Breakdown’s ugly cable. _

Starscream’s hand tightened. “The  _ nerve—" _

Another solar cycle; another mission; another humiliation.

His fuselage still searing-hot from the Nevada sun, his processor reeling from the blows he’d taken, Starscream watched. “Master—”

“Make no mistake, Starscream.” Megatron half-turned, his shadow falling over Breakdown’s kneeling form. “When I want to hear your whining, the whole ship will know.”

Starscream fell back as if scorched. Sucking thin air through his turbines he seethed and paced, paced and seethed.

They’d been damnably close. If Breakdown hadn’t fumbled the artifact, still clumsy with his right hand—

In the darkness Breakdown’s left optic glowed. Resolutely he gazed at nothing, as if he’d shut down all subroutines. Starscream imagined the slack mouth, the vacant processor. The Energon trickling from a scuffed cheekbone.

_ One would think you’d welcome the big oaf’s disgrace. _

A surge of longing flared in him: to slash Breakdown’s faceplate as he’d once slashed Knock Out’s; to  _ punish _ Breakdown—

As though by hurting Breakdown he could save them both from a bloodier fate at Megatron’s claws.

“And  _ you, _ Breakdown.” Megatron glanced back almost carelessly. “What am I to do with you?”

It stung. Not three solar cycles before, Megatron had said the same to Starscream. It seemed an invasion, a betrayal. Megatron might just as easily have broadcast Starscream’s whimpers and groans to the whole ship.

Starscream’s tanks roiled, and his wing joints squeaked helplessly. In his belly a hungry heat flared ( _ no); _ he felt again the grip of Megatron’s claws around his waist, the phantom sensation of being stretched to his limit. A prickle washed across his fuselage ( _ no). _

And that was a betrayal too.

If Breakdown noticed (slow-witted Breakdown), he gave no outward sign. He chewed his bottom lip, leaving a ding in the copper, and stared at Megatron’s feet.

“Don’t know, Master. If I had to guess, you’re gonna dent my engine block.”

Breakdown called Megatron  _ Master _ too. On his glossa it sounded pathetic.

“Lord Megatron,” Starscream cut in, though his faceplate was burning, though he knew his optics must be ablaze. “Surely our glorious leader has  _ better _ things to do than disciplining this cretin—”

Breakdown didn’t flinch. He’d come to expect it.

Megatron’s brows rose. His cables squeaked as he shifted his weight. “Taking initiative, Starscream?”

“Yes, Master.” It was cool and steely in his own audials, though his engine was sickeningly warm. “If I—if I may. I’ll bring him to heel.”

Megatron tilted his head, sizing Starscream up. In the heat of his gaze Starscream felt his armor stripped away, felt himself burned down to the Spark chamber. Felt himself  _ exposed _ , as thoroughly as Megatron had so often exposed his port. Felt known. Starscream shuddered, his vocoder resetting with a click. His wings twitched furiously.

He’d miscalculated. Overstepped. They’d both be beaten until their spilled Energon mingled on the bridge floor.

“Amuse me, little Starscream,” growled Megatron. “Knock Out.” It echoed over the ship comms lines. “Prepare a medbay berth for your  _ partner." _


	2. Chapter 2

In the privacy of his own barren quarters Starscream paced, his turbines purring. He’d scarcely expected to get away with it. (On the air he tasted his own impatience, salty and dry.) Still some part of him screamed to take wing, to abandon the whole wretched idea.

Beneath its plating his cable twitched obscenely. It’d been half-pressurized for cycles, bumping lightly against his plate as he darted from the bridge. Reminding him.

He’d become so easy to excite.

A low rap on the door. Starscream triggered the video feed with a flick of his finger. Breakdown filled the doorway, flanked by two Vehicons at either shoulder, his expression resigned and mutinous. As Starscream watched, he shuttered his optics for a nanocycle. Set his jaw. Knocked again with one fingertip.

What, Starscream wondered (it flooded up in him, hot and dizzying), must Breakdown be thinking, humiliated in front of his troops? Escorted through the ship by his own men. Like a  _ prisoner _ .

Again Starscream’s cable nudged his plating, half-hard and aching. An ugly reminder.

“Come in.” It came out higher than he’d meant. The door slid back.

At any klik he could call the whole thing off. His turbines accelerated, condensation slicking his clenched fists.

Breakdown stepped, ducking beneath the doorframe, into Starscream’s cramped quarters. 

“Breakdown, reporting as requested, sir.” In his low voice there was no hint of apprehension. Starscream scrutinized his faceplate, stepping back to take Breakdown in.

He was ugly. Cloddish, as all grounders were. In the medbay and on the battlefield Breakdown seemed broad at the shoulder and thick at the waist; in Starscream’s habsuite he was grotesque. Impossible to imagine him taking wing. Under his own weight his motor growled with every movement, and his plates scraped ever-so-faintly together.

Starscream’s own plating was growing uneasily warm. This was repulsive. “I am not an unreasonable commander, Breakdown.”

“Nosir.”

“Close the door.” Starscream forced a smile. As if this were normal. “I do like my privacy.”

With a gruff gesture Breakdown dismissed the Vehicons. The door shut with a hiss; Starscream’s wings twitched at the rush of air.

His vocoder clicked. On the warming air he tasted diesel and fear.

“I am not,” he said, “unkind.”

Breakdown grunted, inclining his head. In the silence every sound was too clear: the hum of their engines, the creak of Breakdown’s thick cabling, the crackle of static.

Breakdown was  _ stoic _ ; it galled Starscream. A mech bargaining for life and limb ought to be grateful. “Do you  _ ever _ speak in full sentences?” 

He’d gone too far. They were on the same side.

As Breakdown grimaced and looked away, Starscream tried, with shaky vocoder, “Think of this as an opportunity to redeem yourself.” The words came slowly, as subroutines fought and signal sparked in his neural net. “A little tit for tat.”

Breakdown’s vacant yellow optic found the tools. A question formed on his copper lips; an instant later it was gone, his gaze snapping back to Starscream’s.

“I don’t—uh—understand, Commander.”

And that galled Starscream too. Breakdown was an old soldier, and he knew about the deals made in back rooms and washracks. (Every Seeker in the Air Command had known how to get ahead.) He was being difficult. Spitefully difficult. He’d not thought of Breakdown as petty.

“You understand perfectly well,” snapped Starscream. 

Again he bit off his anger; now he cycled his vents, fists clenching and unclenching. This was all going wrong, and still his cable’s tip nudged teasingly (infuriatingly) at his plating. Still he smelled copper and salt, ground-in dust and aging rubber. Almost without thinking he sampled the air, his chemoreceptors firing. Whetting his appetite.

His body wanted Breakdown, as it wanted Megatron.

(A sick thought. He recoiled from it. It had been too long; he was eager to ‘face with anyone at all.)

Something must have shown in Starscream’s stance, in his gaze. An ugly realization dawned on Breakdown’s faceplate.

“You want to—” Breakdown broke off, whistling low and slow. “No.  _ No _ .” He clenched his dentae, averting his stare.

A sick fury shot through Starscream, as if his Energon lines had turned for an instant to acid. “You  _ stupid _ grounder, I’m trying to help you.” The intensity of it staggered him, jarring a snarl from his vocoder. “I should have left you for the organics.”

As if Breakdown had any room to argue. Starscream’s processor whirled with a sudden madness. As if Breakdown had any choice.

_ Bargaining, Starscream? _ Megatron had so often asked him.  _ When I hold all the game pieces? _

A lesson Starscream had learned, blow by blow, over millennia. A lesson Breakdown would do well to learn quickly.

_ Anything but the finish _ , Knock Out had wailed. As if he’d had a choice.

“Commander.” Breakdown stepped back, his motor picking up; on his copper faceplate the condensation shone bright. “I’m gonna do the decent thing and let you forget this.”

“You bent over for Knock Out.” It came out in a low hydraulic hiss.

In that instant he knew it was true.  That too he imagined, fierce and dizzying. He could almost taste the fresh polish, the sharp smell of automobile.

Breakdown’s shoulders went rigid, cables pulling tight with a snap. A dull rage boiled in his optic. “You’re out of line, Starscream.”

Starscream tasted oil. “It is  _ Commander _ Starscream, you lumbering heap of spare parts. And if you walk out of this room now, I will  _ personally _ have you and your lover boy dismantled—”

It hung in the air between them. Steam was seeping, in the chill, from the seams in Breakdown’s armor.

“That a threat?” rumbled Breakdown, his optic widening with sweet fear. “Commander.”

He’d won. Breakdown was cowed. At any moment he could stop, could dismiss Breakdown, safe in the certainty that Breakdown would hold his tongue.

_ I’ll bring him to heel. _ Starscream’s fingers itched to dig into warm metal, to scrape away chipped paint.

“Call it a promise,” purred Starscream. “Get comfortable. I’ll prepare you.”

It fell flat, echoing oddly. Breakdown’s optic narrowed; his mouth twisted. By his side his hand twitched, with the tiny click of a T-Cog engaging. Yet his hammer did not emerge. For an instant he seemed to fight himself, dentae gritted.  Around him the air was glassy with charge.

Starscream’s wings fluttered involuntarily at the sight, his turbines hissing. 

It had been too long.

“You touch Knock Out and I’ll crush you into slag, Commander.” Breakdown seemed to struggle with the words. For all his bulk he looked pathetically diminished. And that burned in Starscream’s belly: he’d disgraced himself to save Breakdown from Megatron, and Breakdown was a wreck.

Starscream stepped forward, closing the distance between them. Up close, Breakdown’s paint was repulsively cracked, stained with ocher-red earth and machine oil. With every movement his joints squeaked, and the smell of diesel hung around him and clung to Starscream’s chemoreceptors.

Starscream’s mouth flooded with lubricant. This was disgusting. Yet his Energon lines pulsed, tense and eager, and his cord strained aching and hot beneath his plate.

He found his gaze tracing Breakdown’s sturdy thighs, following the long seam up to his pelvic plating. Breakdown’s plate was prominent, boxy, as if cupping a cable too monstrous to fully retract. (Starscream licked his lips, imagining.) 

He’d find no joy in this. Starscream shuddered. “I wouldn’t make threats if I were you, Breakdown. Not while I hold all the pieces.”

He reached for Breakdown’s plating; it was searingly hot. As if Breakdown’s body, too, had a mind of its own. (He’d ‘faced with Knock Out, Starscream remembered with a rush of distaste.) Starscream cupped his plate, squeezing it firmly. Beneath it something twitched, with a click, and did not move again.

Starscream’s faceplate warmed with frustration. He squeezed again, his talons tracing the seams in Breakdown’s groin. 

Breakdown clenched his jaw, his armor flattening against his mesh, and looked away.

“You’re going to make this difficult for me, aren’t you?” muttered Starscream, his glossa numb with the charge burning in him. He fumbled, searching blindly for the catch. Millennia it’d been since he’d ‘faced with anyone but Megatron—and never with a grounder. He’d had self-respect once.

Breakdown shuttered his good optic. His plate snapped back with a whine, nearly dinging Starscream’s finger.

“Ah.” Starscream vented softly. “I  _ see _ .”

Even depressurized and limp, Breakdown’s cable was massive, thicker easily than Megatron’s. Next to his ravaged paintjob the navy-blue silicone was pristine, invitingly soft-looking. Vulnerable. Starscream’s port tingled; the sense memory of being stretched open, wider with every thrust, flashed through him. He felt suddenly  _ empty _ .

He reached uncertainly for Breakdown’s cord, wrapping his claws around the base. His fingers did not meet. Breakdown grunted, his body jerking and his fingers curling at his sides; a wave of heat rolled off him, his motor picking up. In his every tiny movement Starscream read humiliation.

As if  _ Breakdown _ were degrading himself. As if Breakdown were doing Starscream a favor by allowing himself to be touched.

Coppery lights flickered beneath Starscream’s fingers, though Breakdown’s cable remained stubbornly limp. Starscream squeezed the plush, warm silicone experimentally; the core stiffened for an instant, hydraulic lines swelling, and slumped again in his hand.

“Starscream,” Breakdown rasped, in a high thin voice. “I can. Uh. I can do this. Make it easier on you.”

“You’re trying to get this over with, aren’t you?” Starscream squeezed tighter, his talons denting the silicone.

Breakdown shuddered. The diesel-spiked steam from his vents was condensing on his armor, trickling into the seams. Between his plates, massive vulcanized-rubber cables pulled taut. He was monstrously strong. In a moment’s panic he could rip Starscream apart. “No, sir.”

“As your commanding officer, Breakdown—” Every word was careful. He was alert, acutely so; Breakdown felt vital and warm in his hand, damp with condensation. Starscream slid his hand, jerkily, up and down the thick shaft. “It is my repulsive duty to discipline my troops—”

A low uneasy moan escaped Breakdown. He snatched blindly for support, steadying himself against a corroded pipe. “Right.”

“—however distasteful the means.” With a shiver, Starscream spat oral lubricant into his free palm. He cupped Breakdown’s cable in both hands, feeling the comfortable weight of it. 

It had been metacycles: Megatron was rarely content with a game of crankshaft. And there’d been little call for technique on Trypticon Station, in the unrecognizably distant past.

So Starscream moved tentatively, roughly rubbing along the ridged shaft. The silicone caught on his palm, stretching and warming under the friction, and Breakdown grunted in pain. The chipped indicator on his left hip flickered on, throwing Starscream’s hands into a stark orange spotlight.

“Ah.” Starscream sucked air through his vents. A mistake: he tasted Breakdown, all deteriorating rubber and acid-eaten iron. His own cable, so much smaller, twitched and swelled. ( _ Soon _ .) “You like pain, don’t you?”

No reply.

Starscream growled. Twisted his hand sharply, the silicone flexing.

“ _ Slag _ , Starscream.” Breakdown’s hand clenched, fingers screeching over the pipe. A bright bead of transfluid squeezed from his cable’s slit, rolling slowly over the dark-orange head. In Starscream’s hand his cable stiffened. Began to swell. 

Starscream watched, appalled. Breakdown was  _ grotesque _ . He’d tear apart any mech or femme with the bad luck of berthing him. Even half-erect his cable was heavy and solid.

Beneath Starscream’s plating his port felt achingly empty. Like a waking nightmare he imagined Breakdown’s cable sliding into his body, stretching his port like a mere sheath. (Breakdown would frag like a piston, hard and unstoppable.)

Starscream released Breakdown’s cable. Let it fall. Caught it again, the silicone bouncing softly against his palm. “It is  _ Commander _ Starscream.” He punctuated it—barely daring—with light slaps to the head.

Breakdown grunted. Whined. “Yessir.” His optic flickered open. He fixed Starscream with an almost pleading stare. Terrified. Or needy. As if Starscream had awoken something primitive and ugly in his outmoded processor.

Starscream grimaced as another drop of transfluid trickled from Breakdown’s slit, running warm and thick over his fingers. “You  _ are _ disgusting. Clean that off, soldier.”

“Yessir.”

For an instant they stood, staring in mutual horror. As if neither could quite believe what was happening.

“ _ Clean it up _ .” Starscream twisted Breakdown’s cable sharply, holding his hand up to Breakdown’s slack mouth. (Night after night he’d licked Megatron clean, tasting his own still-warm lubricant and Energon on Megatron’s cable. He’d burned then with silent rage.) “Are your audials connected to your cord, Breakdown?”

They weren’t. Breakdown stared for a repulsed instant at Starscream’s hand. Almost gently he leaned down, sucking each finger into his hot wet mouth. At the tender suction Starscream almost—almost—whimpered.

This was too intimate. He imagined, with a sickened shudder, kissing Breakdown. He would be sloppy, Starscream knew, and he’d taste of oil and Engex—

With each pulse of suction, Starscream’s cord throbbed. His panel snapped aside, cool air rushing over his burning array; his cable sprang free with searing relief.

“Oh. Primus.” Breakdown spat out Starscream’s fingers, his faceplate stricken. “You’re gonna frag me.”

And in an instant of acid clarity Starscream knew: yes. He would. Breakdown needed to be humbled—to be wrestled to the berth, as Megatron had so often wrestled Starscream—

“Of course.” Uneasily he chuckled. “That  _ was _ the plan. Surely you didn’t  _ really _ think I’d allow that monstrosity inside me?”

Breakdown bit his lip. Stared at nothing. Eagerly his cable twitched, swelling still further. Starscream watched in rapt disgust.

“Put your hands on the berth and bend over.” It sounded pathetic in his small, sickened voice. Yet Breakdown obeyed, his optic screwing up. The plate over his port slid aside with a click.

Starscream couldn’t have said, at that instant, what he’d expected. Breakdown’s port was small and featureless, and through the dull red silicone a ring of biolights glowed dimly. He was dry, smelling faintly of hot grease. Tight. On some level Starscream could not name he felt insulted.

In his hips the indicators glowed, pulsating arrhythmically. One guttered out for several seconds, then flickered almost cautiously back on.

Starscream reached over Breakdown, his fuselage brushing Breakdown’s broad back. From his workstation he selected a blunt-tipped injector, its body glowing faintly, brimful of thick medical-grade lubricant. ( _ For tough customers _ , Knock Out had said with a leer. He'd not asked questions.)

Hands shaking with distaste, Starscream pressed the injector’s tip to Breakdown’s port. Lubricant beaded up, flowing sluggishly down—it must have felt like ice on the searing silicone and metal, Starscream thought—and pooling on Breakdown’s dingy armor below.

Cables pulled taut with a snap. Breakdown’s whole body tensed. “Knock Out’s gonna know about this.” It came out weak. Defiant still. “You leave one mark on me—”

The Autobots might have admired that defiance, Starscream reflected.  _ He’d _ long since learned (at Megatron’s hands) to shut up.

But Breakdown had never been a quick learner.

How lucky that Starscream was there to correct him.

Starscream jabbed the injector home. For an instant Breakdown’s body resisted—but only for an instant. The injector slipped, catching on the silicone, gradually inside. “Then I would advise you to  _ keep still _ . Lest you require medical assistance.”

He brushed a fingertip around the rim of Breakdown’s port. Breakdown groaned, pushing back, as if unable to stop himself; still he was tense with rage or pain. Though surely the smooth little injector couldn’t have hurt a port that had taken Knock Out’s cable. Vain Knock Out would never have settled for a  _ small _ cord.

He was beginning to think like Megatron.

His hand jerked. Starscream pressed the plunger. Relieved not to see Breakdown’s face as the lubricant flooded deep into his port. Still Breakdown’s expression flashed through his imagination, alarmingly vivid, and a shuddering jolt went through Starscream’s cable. His own port tingled; he felt the phantom rush of liquid fill him, stretching his port’s walls.

His vocoder clicked nervously. Starscream coughed, his vents resetting.

“You wouldn’t want the whole ship to know how I punished you, would you, Breakdown?” It came out smaller than he’d hoped, and less certain.

A strained whimper escaped Breakdown.

“Answer me, you inarticulate lugnut.” Starscream’s voice rose. He seemed to be speaking from somewhere just outside his body. As he leaned in, driving the plunger home, his cable brushed Breakdown’s thick thigh, with a warm burst of sensation. “Do you know how  _ ridiculous _ you look? Aft in the air. A port full of lubricant. If I flipped you over you’d leak all over my berth.”

A sickening glee was rising in him, warming his faceplate. He stumbled over the words, his vocoder staticky.

“You wouldn’t want me to have to do this  _ again _ .”

Starscream’s cable ached tenderly. Every word seemed to throb through his body.

“Next time you bungle a mission, I’ll bend you over the bridge controls, and every one of your troops can ride you.”

A delicious idea. Starscream pulled the injector free with a wet squelch. Lubricant oozed, bright with reflected glow, from Breakdown’s port; as it contracted, Starscream caught a glimpse of his internal lights, strong and steady.

His fingers curled; his turbines hummed raggedly. Starscream flexed his fingers, ready to probe Breakdown’s sweet port—

No. No, he couldn’t wait, couldn’t endure the slow torturous process of stretching Breakdown wider and wider.

“Megatron would never tolerate—” Breakdown’s words came weakly. His engine too was roaring; Starscream smelled hot metal and filthy grease.

“Megatron doesn’t give a scrap what happens to you.” Starscream stepped, dizzy with something that was not—could not be—lust, between Breakdown’s massive legs. He steadied his cable, lining it up.

His head pressed lightly against the sweet, slick silicone. Even that made him gasp. 

Starscream’s hand found Breakdown’s pauldron. In that instant he imagined he could have pinned Breakdown against the berth. He drew his body close, nestling against Breakdown’s burly frame, feeling the damp heat rolling off him, the vibrations rumbling through his armor. He could almost sense Breakdown’s Spark prickling with rage and fear. And something animal and shameful, too.

Starscream’s hips bucked, his cable’s shaft sliding over silicone and rough metal. Lubricant was oozing from Breakdown’s port, slicking his aft, dribbling into his seams. “You’re  _ useless _ . Useless.”

Starscream thrust forward, and Breakdown’s port stretched warm and wet around him. He was in.

Breakdown was lush and hot and slick. Plush ridges rubbed Starscream’s shaft, each one a little pop of bliss.

Breakdown let out a low, agonized moan, a moan that reverberated through his whole frame. “Get it over with.”

Starscream pulled back; his cable pulled free with an obscene squelch, lubricant glistening thick and tacky on his shaft. He smelled diesel, rich and tangy. So some of the lubricant was Breakdown’s own, then—

—and yes, a swirl of turquoise glowed in the synthlube. Breakdown was growing aroused.

“Breakdown.” It came out high and thin. “I am your  _ only _ friend on this ship. I can make life very pleasant for you—”

And his free hand wrapped around the base of Breakdown’s cable, squeezing the plump silicone. 

“—but you  _ are _ advised to remember—”

He slid back in, deeper this time. Breakdown’s port stretched slow—agonizingly slow—around him. Starscream whimpered, overcome. His fingertips screeched over Breakdown’s pauldron, digging into the dull finish.

“—to remember—”

He gasped, pulling out. Breakdown’s cable jerked in his hand, and Breakdown’s fingers twitched on the bed. So vividly he could picture Breakdown’s pretty grimace, his lips pulled back over clenched dentae.

Starscream coughed. “Ah. Er. To remember who holds the reins, as it were—”

In he thrust, into that sweet warmth. Out he pulled. Starscream’s hips jerked involuntarily. He might have been flying.

Breakdown’s motors squealed. With a growl—and Starscream knew loathing when he heard it, and it galled him—he ground back. Pushing himself onto Starscream’s cable. Electricity rippled, almost too sharp to touch, through his frame; electricity danced in blue arcs between them.

Breakdown was beautiful, filthy and stocky and haloed in sparks. Breakdown was  _ delicious _ .

Breakdown was little more than a warm wet hole.

Starscream slipped into a desperate rhythm. Words—taunts, jeers, pleas—half-flashed through his mind. In an instant they were forgotten. He jerked Breakdown’s cable furiously, feeling pre-transfluid gush in warm wet trickles down over his fingers. Breakdown clenched, as if to push him out.

Starscream bit his lip. His wings beat furiously, fanning the staticky air. He cried out, his vents flying open under the force of the steam rising in him.

In and out he rose and fell, whimper-whining, until the charge in him built to something monstrous—

—and the world dissolved.

He rolled off Breakdown, with a dissatisfied whine. At some point they’d collapsed onto the berth; now they lay tangled, limb wrapped around limb. Starscream’s cable pulled free with a wet, sticky sound. He could smell them, the air musky and sweet.

“You done?” Breakdown’s voice was raw. He’d been grunting like an organic.

“So it would seem.”

With a hiss of hydraulics Breakdown relaxed. Breakdown was still defiant, then. A bitter gall filled Starscream’s mouth. And the idea seized him.

“We aren’t finished, Breakdown.”

He pushed his cable tenderly back into its housing, scrambling loose-limbed onto Breakdown’s warm back.

“No,” said Breakdown thickly. “No—you don’t—"

His port was still dilated, its edges a darker red, puffy from use. His biolights flickered, pulsating invitingly. Starscream’s mouth twisted. He was disgusted, he reminded himself.

Starscream leaned in, smelling Breakdown and himself—

—and began to lick. Breakdown tasted salty, virile, and he squirmed against the berth beneath Starscream, twitching and jerking. His port contracted, tensing against Starscream’s glossa, and lubricant and transfluid trickled hot and slick over Starscream’s mouth.

“Starscream—” Breakdown gasped, breaking off. Wordlessly he groaned, hips bucking upward into Starscream’s mouth. His tremendous cable, still erect, slapped his thigh as he jerked.

He was playing Breakdown like an instrument. A terrible power built in Starscream; his claws dug into the seams of Breakdown’s solid thighs, biting down into sensitive protoform and tender wiring.

Disconnected syllables spilled from Breakdown’s synthesizer. They moved together, Breakdown groaning, all raw power beneath Starscream. The plump silicone warmed, scorching against Starscream’s lips, and so wet—

And Breakdown’s whole body went rigid, pistons slamming into place with such force his armor vibrated. Charged transfluid spilled, crackling, from his twitching cable. For a nanocycle the air around him glowed. Starscream’s glossa tingled, sharply.

He roared, and the whole ship must have heard it, so deep and so desperate it was.

For an instant his overload hit Starscream, like the echo of distant thunder. Starscream gasped, sitting up with a jolt. His port pulsed, hungry, beneath its plating.

And then it was over. Breakdown was sprawled, slick and filthy with his own thick transfluid, in Starscream’s berth.

Starscream scrambled off him, feeling suddenly faint. Disgusted with Breakdown, so filthy and so  _ stupid _ . Breakdown, who’d needed correction.

“Clean yourself up,” he rasped, his voice rising. “And—er—I suggest you  _ remember _ this next time your focus slips—”

And from the look in Breakdown’s optic, Starscream knew he would not soon forget it.


End file.
